


That Bodiless Voice

by cassyl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Ejaculation, Femslash February, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Phone Sex, mild themes of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's never seen Irene Adler in person. She has, however, spoken to her on the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Bodiless Voice

Molly’s never seen Irene Adler in person. In the papers, yes—there was a time you couldn’t avoid her name in the tabloid headlines. And on a slab with her head bashed in—but that wasn’t actually her, as it turned out. 

She has, however, spoken to her on the phone.

It was just once, the day Sherlock—when she helped him— Everything was happening so quickly, Sherlock making arrangements via text while she contacted local morgues in search of a corpse that fitted his description, that she didn’t even notice he’d fished her mobile out of her bag until he handed it back to her and said, “She’ll explain what to do once you’ve found him.” 

“What—who—” But Sherlock was already out of the room, making a call of his own. “Hello?” She put her mobile up to her ear.

“You must be Dr. Hooper.” A woman’s voice, rich and slow, like silk. 

“Er,” Molly said. “Yes?”

“Sherlock tells me his brother will be the one to formally identify the body, so you won’t have any trouble there, but in the event that someone else wants to have a look, you’re going to need to do three things. First—” The instructions were issued clearly and calmly, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. 

It wasn’t until a couple of minutes into their conversation that it finally clicked for Molly, and she gasped. “You’re—”

“Yes,” she drawled, and Molly felt herself blushing at the memory of the white breasts, the prominent ribcage, the full, dark, curling pubic hair of the woman whose corpse Sherlock had identified as Irene Adler. It hadn’t been her, but it might as well have been—a woman chosen to resemble her in every particular. Molly might not have seen Irene Adler’s dead body, but she felt certain she knew all her identifying marks. When Irene said, “Shall we press on?” there was a smile in her voice, as if she knew exactly what Molly was thinking.

The call only lasted a few minutes, just the slightest intermission in that hectic day, but Molly still thinks of it sometimes—not of Irene dispassionately explaining how to stave in a dead body’s skull so as to best disguise its face, but of the _way_ she said it, so coolly, with the air of someone used to having her orders obeyed. Sherlock speaks that way, too. Molly never does.

She should have deleted the number from her phone ages ago, but for some reason she hasn’t. Occasionally, she scrolls down through her outgoing calls list and hovers over it, just imagining _what if_. She looked up the area code once: America—Washington, DC. Molly tries to imagine Irene Adler there, right in the heart of the country’s most powerful city, and fails. Washington is not a real place in her mind’s eye, just a stock photo of some white neoclassical building, the Capitol or the White House or somewhere, culled from American action movies in which the President is in mortal danger.

But then, Irene Adler isn’t particularly real to her, either, so perhaps it’s fitting.

When she hovers over that number, though, she never intends to call. She wouldn’t. What would she say? To _Irene Adler_. What could _she_ possibly have to say?

And yet—sometimes, she thinks of the slow laughter in Irene’s voice, that cool tone of command—

When Molly actually dials the number one night, it’s a mistake—she thinks. She’s had a glass or two of wine, and her fingers are clumsy and—then it’s ringing and she just wonders, _Why not?_ The line has probably been disconnected or reassigned, any number of things, so why shouldn’t she just wait and find out?

Irene picks up the line on the third ring. “Dr. Hooper,” she says, and, oh, there’s that teasing drawl, just like Molly remembers it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—It’s late.”

“Not where I am,” Irene Adler replies. “Here, the evening’s just beginning.”

Molly’s throat is suddenly dry. Maybe. “I hit ‘send’ accidentally.” She feels she ought to explain.

“So you’ve thought about calling me before.”

“No!” She says it too quickly and she can feel heat break across her chest, flaring up her throat. “I mean, no. I haven’t.”

“Sherlock’s little gambit was a success, it seems,” she says conversationally, smoothly ignoring Molly’s embarrassment.

“Oh.” It’s been six months since Sherlock— and nearly as long since he left her spare bedroom and disappeared for parts unknown, but she still finds herself expecting him when a door opens at Barts, or— “Yes,” she says.

“You must have played your part well.”

“It was nothing,” Molly protests automatically.

“Not nothing at all.” Irene’s voice is quiet, but her tone brooks no refusal. “He must think highly of you, to have trusted you with that.”

Molly’s throat tightens. This woman—this stranger— “Not as highly as he thinks of you.”

She does laugh then, a light breath. “If you say so.”

“He _does_.” Molly saw Sherlock in the corridor on Christmas, after— when he thought she was dead. Hard to compete with that. Not that she could, anyway. 

“Oh, you _do_ have a type, don’t you?” She sounds amused, but not without sympathy.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Molly manages around her constricting throat muscles.

“Don’t you?” When Molly doesn’t answer, she breathes in a little laugh, and Molly can imagine her red lips curling. “You haven’t ever noticed that you _like_ being told what to do? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the thought of someone taking you in hand, you know.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Molly says firmly. Her face, her throat, her chest prickle hot. She swallows, tries again. “I’m don’t want anyone to—hurt me, or—”

“Don’t confuse control with pain, Dr. Hooper,” Irene replies. Her tone is that of a teacher disappointed in a promising pupil, gentle, but certain Molly can do better. “Surely you’ve seen enough of how Sherlock operates to recognize the difference.”

“Please don’t—”

“You see, I’ve already made you beg.”

Molly feels this realization all the way down to her toes. She can feel, of all things, her nipples drawing tight. She takes a steadying breath.

“Tell me something, Molly—I can call you that, can’t I?”

“Yes,” Molly whispers.

“Do you touch yourself, Molly?”

She throbs just at the question. It surprises her, but the thought of Irene knowing this about her, hearing it from her own lips— “Yes,” she breathes. “Sometimes.”

“And how do you like it, when you do?”

Something clenches in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Irene chides. “What, tell me. Do you use your hands, a vibrator, what? Do you finger yourself, or do you prefer to focus on your clit? Hard or soft, fast or slow?”

She would think the waves of embarrassment would stop at some point in this conversation, but they just keep breaking over her, hot pinpricks across her shoulders. “Soft. Gentle, um.” She presses her eyes closed, as if this will deliver her from the voice in her ear. “Usually just my hands, but not—inside me.”

“There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.”

Molly feels a giddy little laugh shudder out of her.

“And is it good, when you come? Do you feel satisfied?”

“It’s . . . um.”

“Oh, you darling girl. I bet you can feel it, can’t you, when you’ve finished and you’re lying in bed—you can feel that tension that you didn’t _quite_ manage to undo.”

Molly’s never thought of it this way, but sometimes—sometimes when she’s about to orgasm she can sense it could have been deeper, more powerful, almost uglier, but then her climax hits and it’s over and, well, there’s no sense in troubling over it, but sometimes— “Yes.”

“Would you like me to show you, Molly? I can tell you how to come so hard your legs will kick and you won’t be able to stop yourself screaming. I can make you come like that. Would you like me to?”

Molly bites her lip, wondering how she ever wound up here, on the phone to England’s most notorious dominatrix, who’s supposed to be dead—wondering how she’s even contemplating doing this. It must be the wine, the way her head is spinning a little, the way she’s already wet. 

Her breath hitches in her throat when she asks, “Why? I mean, why would you want to do that?”

Irene is quiet for a moment, considering this. “It’s a shame that an intelligent woman like yourself doesn’t know what she likes. Maybe I like the thought of teaching you. Or maybe I just like the thought of having you at my mercy.”

“. . . What would you want me to do?”

“There’s a good girl,” Irene says approvingly. “All you have to do is listen, and do exactly as I say. Do you think you can do that?”

Shivering, Molly says, “Yes.”

“The first thing I want you to do is stand up and take off all your clothes.”

For a moment, Molly can’t seem to move. But Irene is waiting, and so she unfolds herself from the sofa and stands up. She tugs down her yoga pants and knickers before she loses her nerve, then pulls off her socks. The floorboards are cold under her bare feet, and the space between her thighs feels too hot in the chill of her flat. 

It takes a little more wrangling to free herself from her top and sweater, and she almost drops her mobile. But finally, she’s standing there in the middle of her flat, naked to the air.

Even alone, she feels shy. Irene can’t see her, but Molly knows what she looks like, can’t help feeling like a schoolgirl in comparison to Irene’s lush curves. Irene has a woman’s body, hips, full breasts, where Molly is all knees. 

“Have you done it?”

“Yes.” She wishes she could sound sure and proud the way Irene does, but she can barely make her voice go above a whisper.

“Good. Now, where are you?”

“Er—at home?”

“Where in your flat,” Irene clarifies laughingly.

“Oh,” Molly says with relief. “Right. Er, the sitting room.”

“Hm, let me see.” Irene is quiet for a moment, and Molly imagines her tapping her fingers on her lips thoughtfully. “Much as I love the thought of you spread out and sweating on the sofa where your friends might sit the next time they come over”—Molly bites down on a little whimper at the thought—“I think the bed will be more suitable. So: go into your bedroom and pull your duvet back, then put a towel down on the bed.”

Molly’s legs seem to be moving of their own volition, because here she is, stopping at the linen cupboard for a fresh towel before padding into her bedroom. It feels—extravagant, to be naked in the middle of the house—naughty and too open and, yes, cold. The cold of the floor remains an ache under her feet, and she can almost feel the draft moving around her as she walks.

Toby jumps up off the bed when she pulls the duvet onto the floor and she nudges him out of the room and shuts the door behind him. He gives one pitiful mewl and then she hears him jump up onto the table, which he knows she hates. But—there are other things to worry about right now. The towel goes down on top of the sheets and then she’s standing there, hands empty again except for her mobile and she says, “OK.”

“Lie down, then,” Irene says. “On your back, legs apart. You may want to put your phone on speaker now, before we go too much further.”

“Oh,” Molly squeaks. “But—the neighbors—”

Irene laughs in earnest, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver right down to Molly’s core. “Oh, you darling girl. They’re going to hear either way, so you might as well make this easier on yourself.”

She can feel herself flushing already, embarrassed in advance for the next time she runs into Mrs. Sherazi on the stairwell. And Mr. Willis downstairs complains every time she pulls a chair out, practically—

“I want them to know, Molly,” Irene murmurs. “I want them to know someone fucked you and made you come so hard you screamed. And I want you to remember, every time you see them in the corridor, that I was the one who did it.”

The noise that comes out of her isn’t—it’s just—a thin, reedy breath, like it’s being pulled out of her, and the thought is frightening, but she wants it, too, she wants to be made to feel that way. Before she can think better of it, she clambers onto the bed and positions herself on the bed as Irene has instructed, pressing the button to put the call on speaker before dropping the phone by her head. “OK.”

“That’s very good, I can tell you’ve done as I said.” Irene’s voice has taken on a different tone, too. No longer pressed up close against Molly ear, it fills the room, if softly. Irene might almost be here, standing at the foot of Molly’s bed—only she’s not, she’s an ocean away, in a room Molly can’t begin to imagine. 

“Now we can begin,” Irene says. “Remember, you’re to do everything I say, exactly as I say it.”

Molly nods, trying to keep her breathing steady. This she can do. If it were for herself, she would never, but if it’s someone else—if it’s for Irene— She’s very good at following instructions.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Irene tells her. “Just as you would if you were alone, however you normally like it.”

Molly is a little disappointed, but this is about what Irene wants her to do, not what she expects, and so she reaches down and brushes the palm of her right hand against her pubic bone, cups herself—lightly at first, making herself shiver, then pressing down with the heel of her hand. Her fingers glide along the line of her— Warm, damp, slipping already. Her fingers trace up, working herself, wringing a little sigh from her lungs.

“Tell me,” Irene says.

“I can’t,” Molly gasps, but she’s pressing more firmly with her first two fingers.

“Tell me,” she insists. “Are you touching your clit?”

“Yes, that.” Molly’s grateful not to have to say the word, but she knows this won’t satisfy Irene, that she’ll only ask for more. “I’m—touching myself. My—my clit.” It’s just repeating what Irene’s already said. She can, she can do this. “I’ve got two fingers on it, and it’s—slippery already, it’s so wet.” Heat breaks over her chest, and she isn’t sure at the moment if it’s shame or something else threatening to take her over.

“I can imagine. You’re eager for this, aren’t you, Molly? You want me to make you come, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Molly’s fingers are working faster, slipping on her clit, missing their mark, sliding back, rubbing harder than she usually likes, but Irene’s voice, that low, teasing certainty, it makes her want. 

“You want to come, don’t you? You want your hips to jerk and your back to arch and your cunt to clench down—”

Irene’s still talking, an incantation, but Molly’s hardly listening because the moment she said the word “cunt” Molly felt herself slipping, the tightening at the root of her, and she wants to pull her hand away, wants to stop, because it’s too soon, not enough— “Oh,” she tries to say, “wait—” But it’s too late. Before she can even warn Irene, she comes, her thighs pressing together, a sharp inward breath.

She lies there with her eyes screwed shut, her stomach muscles trembling. She’s hardly even broken a sweat.

“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling exposed to the air all over again. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, you dear girl.” There’s laughter in Irene’s voice again, and Molly feels herself shrink at it, expecting mockery. But what she says is, “It’s all right, we’re just warming up.”

“But—”

“I made you a promise, Molly. Don’t you trust me?”

Ordinarily, Molly’s answer would be _no_. This woman, who sews discord wherever she goes, who faked her own death— (Funny, she thinks, that she wouldn’t say the same of Sherlock—but no, don’t think of Sherlock now, don’t, don’t.) But strangely, when it comes to this, to desire, to pleasure, to sex—in this, she does trust Irene. Perhaps more than anyone else she can think of. (She would not, it occurs to her abruptly, trust this to Sherlock, however much she may sometimes think about his fingers, the little dip at the top of his mouth.)

“Not,” Irene says wryly, “that I would blame you, particularly.”

“No,” Molly says—too quickly, she hears it immediately, knows Irene hears it too. “I do. I—it’s all right.”

“So we’ll go on?”

“Yes.” And then, in a voice that is barely more than breath, “Please.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Irene’s words are approving, but no less amused. Molly wonders whether this is a joke to her, whether— “Tell me, Molly,” she says, before Molly can get any further, “do you feel ready for me to fuck you now?”

Molly’s answer jams up in her throat, but her fingers are dipping down to test, and when she draws them away, a string of mucus clings to her knuckles. A shiver goes down her and she says, “Yes.”

“Lovely.” Irene is quiet for a moment – composing herself? deciding on strategy? – before telling Molly, “Now I want you to make sure every inch of your pussy is well-lubricated – not just your slit. Get your fingers good and wet, too. You can touch your clit if you like, but the point isn’t to come again, not yet, just to get yourself soaking and slick.”

Molly obeys hesitantly, feeling rather silly smearing her own fluids over herself. It’s not unpleasant – it feels nice, actually, there are parts of her there that are surprisingly sensitive – but it’s not really, well, taking her anywhere. It’s only slightly more pleasurable than, say, kneading the muscles of her thigh.

Just as she’s beginning to feel ridiculous – giving herself an erotic massage, heavy breathing into the phone, really! – Irene says, “All right, enough. You’re going to use your first two fingers now. Put them in – not all the way – and curl them up.”

Molly knows where this is going. She’s not naïve—well, not— She’s read the literature, her friends in college talked. But she’s never—she’d always just assumed— But here Irene is, telling her—promising her—and so she does what she’s told, slips her first two fingers inside herself. She’s certainly wet enough, and her fingers slip in easily. When she crooks her fingers, she half-expects some magic-button reaction, but surely if that were the case she’d have noticed it by now.

“How does that feel?”

Molly hums quietly in agreement.

“You can rub yourself like that, see how that feels.”

Molly rocks her fingers experimentally, a sort of beckoning motion. “It’s—good.” Better than good, actually. She’s usually not terribly interested in having fingers inside her, but this is— 

She can feel herself swelling, gently, against her fingertips, and, hm, that’s different. She keeps it up, coaxing her fingers forward and back, rubbing a pleasant, throbbing ache that eases a slow sigh from her chest. She skates the palm of her free hand over her left breast, a light touch that makes her shiver. “Oh, it’s nice.”

“This next bit may not be,” Irene warns. “It’s going to seem too rough, at first, but you can take it—and, believe me, you’ll thank me.”

Biting her lip, Molly waits.

“You’re going to move your hand in your cunt—not in and out, but up and down. Do it quickly, and hard.”

“I—” These instructions frighten Molly a little—it sounds so harsh, and she doesn’t—

“Imagine they’re my fingers in you. I won’t hurt you, Molly, but I will push you.”

And so she does it, jiggling her hand experimentally up and down, not too hard at first. And it’s not—direct, no immediate buzzer reaction, but it feels good, her fingers bumping that same swollen spot inside her, and so she speeds up her hand a little and, oh, that’s— 

“That’s good,” Irene coos. “Good girl. Keep that up.”

Molly feels her thighs fall further apart as she works her fingers, and suddenly she feels so exposed, but not in that shameful, shy way it was earlier, no—she feels like a wire stripped bare, like energy, and she _wants_ , oh, she wants this.

She can feel herself throbbing around her fingers, but it’s not—it’s not enough— “Oh,” she gasps.

“Keep it up, darling,” says the voice in her ear. “Come on.”

So she does, because Irene says so, and it feels, oh, incredible, she didn’t realize. Her hips are starting to jerk, rough, undulating movements, and she can feel something coalescing inside her, almost in the open space left by her fingers, and it’s—oh—

“Fuck yourself, darling,” Irene says, and Molly can hear her tongue lush against the roof of her mouth, forming the words. “Come on, fuck your wet little cunt for me—”

And she’s sobbing, her fingers aching, hips lifting up off the mattress, but it’s too difficult, too far, Irene is asking too much— “I can’t!” she whines.

“Yes, you can. You will. Do it, come on.”

She’s sweating now, not just a thin sheen, but sweat gathering in the crooks of her elbows, the backs of her knees. The warm smell of it rises from the crease of her thighs. And she’s so wet, god, throbbing with every pulse of her heart.

“Don’t stop now.” Irene’s tone of voice is threatening now, forbidding, and Molly has to—she can’t not, Irene promised.

Nodding her head, her hair slithering under her, Molly resumes the punishing pace Irene has dictated, jerking her fingers inside her—oh, god, inside her cunt, the way Irene wants, the way she would do if she were here. With her other hand she rubs her clit, and it’s almost too much, a sharp, overbright pleasure that rakes over her skin in waves, but she doesn’t let up. Her back is soaking with sweat, her palm slick with her own juices, her lips dry from panting, open-mouthed, for breath that isn’t enough.

“Please,” Molly moans, as if Irene were here, as if she could make this stop, make Molly come—

“That’s it,” Irene says, coaxing. “Good girl, that’s right. Fuck yourself on your fingers for me.”

She can hear it, a wet, sucking noise as her fingers judder inside her and her hips are cutting up and up and up, her legs trembling, and she can’t stop she’s got to keep going—Her hips are up off the mattress and her legs are shaking so hard she’ll fall, oh, please, please, she can’t— The sound of what’s inside her, what she wants, comes tearing out of her as a scream and she’s clenching down around her fingers so hard it grinds her, hard enough to hurt, and her thighs are wet, everywhere, everywhere under her wet, across her arse, her thighs shaking, cunt sweet and aching and wet.

Her hips keep moving for a long time, her cunt still squeezing deliciously around nothing, now, her fingers having slipped out in the spasm. All she can say is, “Oh, oh,” her breath loud in the cavern of her open mouth.

“You did very well, sweet girl,” Irene says at last, her voice still a little laughing, but it’s pleasant, Molly decides, a tender touch. “That sounded lovely.”

All Molly can do is huff out a contended little half-breath. Everything is wet under her—thank goodness Irene had the foresight for a towel—and she smells, she thinks hazily, quite lovely, a warm scent that is almost sweet. She wants to lie here forever. 

“Satisfied now?” Irene asks, as if she didn’t know.

“Yes,” Molly murmurs, palming her breast lazily with her sticky hand. It sends a shiver over her skin and her cunt, still quivering, answers back. “I didn’t realize . . .”

“Well, now you do.”

“Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Dr. Hooper.”

“Well,” Molly says, and now Molly is the one who is laughing, a soft little giggle that makes her stomach muscles ache. “Maybe not entirely.”

“Not entirely,” Irene agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little different for me here. 
> 
> This arose from three things: the speculation (probably nonsensical) that Irene might have loaned Sherlock and Molly her expertise in faking Sherlock's death, the moment in TEH when Molly says, "Maybe it's just my type," and an interest in exploring where the self-confidence Molly seems to have gained between S2 and S3 might have come from. 
> 
> Comments and critique are always welcome.


End file.
